


Somewhere Becoming Rain

by stillaseeker



Category: Inception (2010), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, BAMF!John, First Time, I guess this is my version of a Meet Cute, Inception AU, John is not a Happy Bunny, M/M, Mystery, Not too angsty, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Plotty, Slash, Slow Burn, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-10 11:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillaseeker/pseuds/stillaseeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>You risk your life to prove you're clever.</em>
</p>
<p>They call him an extractor, but Sherlock prefers the term consulting detective. An Inception AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

 

The gloom deepens the closer he gets to Baker Street.

He contemplates lighting another cigarette – the damp, dispirited January day seems to call for it, with no hint of sun save for a smear of orange against a sullen sky. Within a few minutes, even that disappears, fading into grey twilight and a high chance of sleet, if the Greenwich meteorologists can be believed.

Mycroft closes his umbrella.

Mrs Hudson is not in. He notes the trace of dust on 221A's door handle, the lack of wet footprints in the hallway, and cocks his head to the left as he listens. A  _clink_  of glass – industrial grade, thick, no household crockery could sound so resonant – tells him all he needs to know. He makes his way sedately up seventeen steps.

The flat bears the signs of Sherlock's absorption – three chemical blends in differing states of completion, the couch covered in equations and the heavy scent of anise, overlaid with the tang of tobacco and bergamot. At the top of the steps, Mycroft allows himself a half-moment to bask in the sight of his brother so benignly  _busy_ , before lowering his umbrella in a mild  _tap, tap_  against the floorboards.

Sherlock’s head comes up. His face arranges itself into a scowl. 

‘You’re slipping, dear brother.’ Mycroft steps into the flat, taking care to avoid the skull perched in the middle of a sea of papers, a paperweight Ozymandias.

Behind his goggles, Sherlock’s eyes flicker – a quick shift from grey to blue – as he turns back to the pipette in his hands.

‘I heard your oafish tread on the stairs. Three pounds, was it? The weight you put on over Christmas?’

‘Two and a half.' Mycroft twists his wrist. His umbrella turns, a half-arc. 'The roast was particularly toothsome this year.’

Sherlock's mouth twitches as he depresses four droplets of Somnacin into a waiting beaker.

Mycroft settles into one of the armchairs facing the fireplace. Outside, there is a rumble of thunder. The streetlamps have come on, casting phosphorescent haloes that pick out rain-drenched faces and the odd black cab from the shadows. Sherlock’s violin is propped up against the other armchair – another good sign. The Southeast Asian case must be keeping Sherlock occupied; the minds of drug barons can be so deceptively fragile.

They fall into a meditative kind of silence – Sherlock scribbles a note as his solution turns effervescent, and Mycroft closes his eyes, listening to the patter of rain against double-glazed glass. It is as close to peaceful as any shared moment since they were young boys, and Mycroft, in a sudden fit of sentiment, is loath to break it.

The sound of rustling paper ceases. One beat, two – Sherlock’s gaze lands on his overcoat  _(still on)_ , the almost indiscernible wrinkle in the fall of his trousers  _(cigarettes in his back pocket)_ , the specks of mud on his leather shoes  _(mud? Not a typical day in Westminster, then)_  and breathes, ‘A case.’

Mycroft tips his head back;  _yes._

Sherlock continues, ‘A confoundedly difficult case, if it’s got you reaching for-‘ he sniffs, ‘Pall Malls instead of your usual Dunhills. Two cigarettes before tea-time? What would Mummy say?’

Mycroft holds his gaze calmly. ‘Mummy would say it is an entirely appropriate reaction to the day that I’ve just had.’

Sherlock stills. His right eyebrow creeps up a few millimetres; Mycroft lowers his eyes and gives a minute shake of his head.

Gently, Mycroft reaches into his overcoat and withdraws a file. Unlike in films, the words ‘Top Secret’ or ‘Confidential’ do not appear – the cover is blank, save for a single line of Latin in the bottom left corner,  _Dieu et Mon Droit_. Sherlock removes his goggles and rises from his perch at the kitchen table. Another shared look – Mycroft keeps his face expressionless – and Sherlock takes the file from him.

Mycroft taps his fingers to Elgar’s  _Nimrod_  as Sherlock reads. The file is thin – the event, after all, happened less than eighteen hours ago.

 

::

 

Ninety dead. An explosion in the Nahr-e Saraj district, in Afghanistan's Helmand province. The largest single loss of life for the combined NATO operations in Afghanistan to date. Seventy-eight of the ninety killed are British men.

Sherlock purses his lips. He flips the page.

Photographs. An entire military base – Forward Operating Base Gawain – unceremoniously flattened to rubble. No sign of an air strike, no advance warning, no clue to who the perpetrators are.  _Idiots._  

‘Indeed.’ Mycroft's eyes darken, quicksilver to lead. ‘There are, of course, many lines of enquiry underway. The possibilities are nearly endless. The Afghan National Army, the Taliban, al-Qaeda – all have some form of motive; if not, perhaps, the exact means.’

‘Inside job, of course.’ Sherlock murmurs. 

‘Naturally. That brings us to our allies.' Mycroft's mouth curls self-deprecatingly. He spreads his hands. 'Who could want to strike our operations on the cusp of our long-awaited withdrawal? FOB Gawain was planned to be decommissioned in April. Why attack now?’

Sherlock stands, bathrobe swirling around him as he takes two steps to his desk, switching on the table lamp. A passing ambulance wails down Baker Street; high-spirited Scandinavian tourists exit Speedy's in bursts of laughter and shouts of  _Happy New Year._  ‘Presumably someone who wants the war to continue.’

‘And there, we are truly spoilt for choice.' Mycroft laces his fingers on top of his umbrella.

'Arms manufacturers, right-wing fanatics, shadowy criminal organisations with deep interests in Afghanistan’s drug trade – and those are just the suspects we have here, on our own soil.’

‘A pretty conundrum,’ Sherlock breathes, turning from the window. He thumbs through the photographs – grainy, low resolution, taken from a drone 15,000 feet above ground. A Mastiff jeep, torn apart with one wheel intact, three bodies strewn across its interior. A gurney ripped to shreds, half someone’s arm still gripping a handlebar.

‘Sifting through the evidence alone will take weeks,’ Mycroft muses, voice deliberately soft, ‘and we may not have a single thing to show for it. Deciphering the entire puzzle, with all the pieces we have in play, may take years.’ 

‘Time our dear British government can ill afford, if you want to stick to your withdrawal timetable.’

‘Precisely.’

Mycroft stills his fingers. ‘As we speak, the press are circling the story like sharks scenting blood in the water. By tomorrow, the first hints of this will be in  _The Guardian_. Perhaps even,’ Mycroft makes a moue of distaste, ' _The Sun_.'

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow, lingering on an aerial view of the wreckage. A muddy river chugs sluggishly away from the ruins of the base, its banks streaked with human remains and the shell of a helicopter, its tail cone missing.

‘Didn’t your spooks pick up anything? An event of this scale…’

‘Nothing.’

Sherlock risks a glance. Rarely has he seen his brother so quietly calm, so  _furious_. 

The inside of his elbow tingles; he needs a nicotine patch. Swiftly triangulating and discarding a myriad of possibilities, Sherlock turns to the last few pages in the file. A name jumps out at him. A name, and a face.  _Captain John H. Watson._

‘We do have one thing in our favour. Something the perpetrators could not have foreseen.’

Sherlock stares down at the face of a man in military uniform. His eyes are dark, an indeterminate colour bracketed by laugh lines, but his mouth is serious. In one photograph, he is half-turned away from the camera, holding a dark blue beret with a cap badge showing a rod entwined with a serpent – the rod of Asclepius. In the next, his eyes are closed, and his forehead is caked with dried blood.

Mycroft smiles.

‘We have a survivor.’


	2. Supernova

_...there swelled_

_A sense of falling, like an arrow-shower_

_Sent out of sight, somewhere becoming rain._

'The Whitsun Weddings', Philip Larkin

::

 

John isn't sure when his life had gone from being pretty alright most of time, with the occasional flash of giddy brilliance, to this sodding unending miserable hell. His entire side aches –  _four ribs bruised, two possibly broken -_ his shoulder is on fire, and to top it all off that last round of gunfire had nicked his knee; it flares with unholy agony.

He blinks the sweat out of his eyes and reloads his Browning, his fingers slipping from the blood trickling down his shoulder.  _Bill's down, poor sod. Where's Charlie? He'd nipped off to the canteen, hadn't he_ – on his left, there's a slash of balaclava black; without conscious thought, he's pivoting on his good leg. Point, shoot. Satisfying kick of the recoil, sweeter than a rush of nicotine. Reload.  _Fucking bugger buggering fuck._ His arm's steady, but won't hold for much longer. He's starting to lose sensation in his fingers.  _Bloody wankers just had to go for the left shoulder_.  _I'd kill for a cuppa right about now._  A distant, echoing cry, sounding vaguely like his name –  _'Watson!'_  – sends chills down his spine, like someone walking over his grave.

The makeshift hospital they'd been clearing out is a scorched, burning mess. John can't help but heave a sigh at the sight of all that medical equipment –  _Christ, is that the last crate of morphine –_ tossed about like yesterday's rubbish, even as he takes aim and fires at a sudden movement to his right. Through the shimmer of desert heat, he catches something that looks like a swirl of black fabric –  _who the fuck wears a black coat in the desert –_ but disregards it as the wall he's using for cover starts to tremble. A deep rumble fills the air, making the bent and broken hospital stretchers rattle against each other and dread solidify to a calcified knot in John's stomach.

_What fresh hell –_

Yellow. The sand is yellow, the relentless Afghan sun is yellow, their desert camouflage is yellow, the blasted walls of the entire base are an ugly, muddy yellow and yellow is the last thing John Watson sees as the wall he's been leaning on erupts inwards, a glorious flare of yellow and orange like a supernova unfolding, like stars swirling into being, like someone burning his heart out as John is tossed clear across the floor and everything turns dark.

::

 

Sherlock blinks his eyes open.

_White ceiling. Plastered over three – no, four times, last cleaned two weeks ago, going by the size of that cobweb. Whirring noise, 20 decibels. A PASIV. Beeping, regular. A heart monitor and an EEG machine._

_St. Thomas' Hospital. Reality._

With a deft movement, he unwinds the IV line from his wrist, automatically slapping on a gauze bandage over the puncture mark.

John Watson lies on a bed a foot away.

Bandages cover half his face and most of his body, dwarfing his slight form. There is no ostensible change in his condition from a minute ago – _heart rate slightly elevated at 120 bpm, pulse steady, breathing shallow –_ when Sherlock had taken him under.

What he had intended to be fifteen minutes of dream time had taken less than forty seconds – the exact amount of time Captain Watson had needed to sense his presence within the dream, track him down and shoot him out.

Leaning back against the hospital chair, Sherlock steeples his fingers underneath his chin. Watson is still dreaming – there’s two and a half minutes left on the timer. 

In the patient file clipped to the end of Watson's bed, his attending physician has written ' _GCS10 = E2 V4 M4 at 06.14'_. Moderate brain injury caused by a linear skull fracture, resulting in unconsciousness and a lack of reaction to external stimuli - a state otherwise known as a coma. On the Glasgow Coma Scale, Watson's condition registers as a 10, out of a best-case scenario of 15 points. Data: inconclusive.

Watson has been comatose for thirty-eight hours and nineteen minutes, during which he has also undergone multiple surgeries for two broken ribs, a ruptured spleen and a gunshot wound to his left shoulder.

The fact that he is alive at all, when all his compatriots from Gawain are dead, is the bigger anomaly.

Watson looks younger in person than in photographs. His hair, a dishwater blonde sun-streaked with silver, lies in matted tufts above the bandage stretching across his scalp. With his eyes closed, Watson seems softer, muted at the edges, his wan complexion blurring into the chalky whiteness of the hospital sheets. Compared to the man in the dream - _thin mouth curled in humour, blood-soaked fingers casually gripping his gun, dark eyes alight -_  this Watson looks curiously unreal; ephemeral.

Sherlock smiles, the corner of his lips tugging upwards. This case is proving to be more interesting than expected. Digging a hand into the pocket of his black Belstaff, he retrieves his phone and fires off a text.

_Problem. JW hostile. Good shot. SH_

After a moment of consideration, he fires off another.

_Need a second opinion. SH_

Sherlock finds himself observing Watson, cataloguing the spasms of pain that ripple across his face like pebbles skipping across a pool of calm water. Even in sleep, Watson has the curious ability to look at once boyish and world-weary – an unusual feature that probably appeals to women. Sherlock's eyes flick up, then down what he can see of Watson's body – women, and perhaps men, given Watson's experience. _Faint bruise, possibly a fading love bite above the right clavicle, would have been hidden by a uniform. Stubble burn on the left jawline. Stubble burn? Abrasion could be caused by flying rubble from the explosion instead. Probability that Watson is bisexual: above 50 per cent. Need more data._

His phone buzzes.

_Imperative that you extract any information about the ambush in the soonest time possible. MH_

Sherlock sighs dramatically. His fingers fly over the keys.

_Victor Trevor? SH_

The next reply comes a second later.

_Oh, if you really must. MH_

::

 

The first time Eames visited 221B Baker Street, he'd looked around and said, 'Christ, this place is a right tip, isn't it?'

If anything, the flat looks even worse now. Sherlock has set up some bastard love-child of a Somnacin and meth lab in the kitchen, and the poor beleaguered couch is buried under a veritable Ben Nevis of medical books, with likely sounding titles like  _Plum and Posner's Diagnosis of Stupor and Coma_  and  _Textbook of Traumatic Brain Injury_. Cheery stuff.

Biting down on the toothpick sticking out of his mouth, Eames raps smartly on the doorframe. Sherlock, the mad bastard, is draped over an armchair like a dead ferret, all long limbs and listlessness. It's been two years since he set foot in London and encountered a Holmes brother in his native habitat, but when his phone had pinged that morning, he'd failed to feel even a soupçon of surprise. This despite the fact that he'd binned his last phone over the Black Sea less than twenty-four hours ago.

Sherlock barely deigns to lift his head. He's wearing a Stephen Hart suit with some poncy wine-coloured shirt, and his hair is a sooty dandelion of wild curls, raked willy-nilly by impatient fingers. Eames feels like a heathen in his favourite bright orange velour hoodie.

'You rang, good sir?' He puts on his best plummy accent, all Eton schoolboy and butter-won't-melt.

Sherlock huffs – no, there's no other word for it – he  _huffs_  like a six year old child.

'Don't be tiresome, Victor. Keep quiet. I'm thinking.'

Eames swirls his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, picking his way through Sherlock's detritus. 'Your manners haven't improved. Big brother not taken the rod to you yet?'

The exaggerated distaste on Sherlock's face is hilarious; he'll need to try that on a forge sometime. As he steps closer, Sherlock pins him with his unearthly grey-blue eyes. Christ, he'd forgotten what it's like to be at the receiving end of that thousand-yard stare.

' _Don't_  mention Mycroft to me. Your assistance on this case is contingent upon you never making any inference to your horrendous lapse in judgement regarding my brother.'

Eames throws his head back and barks out a laugh. 'God, you'll never let me forget that, will you. Either of you.'

Sherlock's eyes light with something resembling a smile, before he tips his head backwards, fixing his gaze on the ceiling. 'Keep. Quiet.'

Eames sighs.  _Holmeses_ **.** They would have given Dom Cobb a run for his money. Striding across the living room, Eames takes in the clutter scattered about every flat surface like so much pigeon feed. God, is that a human skull? Commandeering the only chair that has escaped the onslaught of Sherlockian mess, he reaches for a slim file lying innocuously on the desk, half covered by a teetering pile of paper. It's the only file not written over in Sherlock's scrawl; he has a thief's sense about these things. Without bothering to check whether Sherlock is watching him or still rifling through his bloody  _mind-palace_ , Eames thumbs the file open.

Interesting fellow, this Watson chap. Completely unremarkable, really – until you see his service record. Eames' eyebrows rise in disbelief. An army surgeon and a crack shot? A certain point man he knows would have turned a charming shade of chartreuse for these marksmanship scores.

Eames skims through the rest of the report, noting the extent of Watson's injuries. Tricky. Very tricky. He sucks in his teeth, his tongue absently tapping against the roof of his mouth. Whatever you say about Holmes, he can certainly deliver on excitement.

His skin prickles, and he looks up to see Sherlock's eyes on him, assessing.

'What do you think?' Sherlock's face is still, but Eames has been in this business long enough, has known  _Sherlock_  long enough, to sense that underneath that languid indolence is a mind practically vibrating with interest.

'You've tried going under, I presume?'

Sherlock looks away, towards the unlit fireplace. 'Didn't take. It was a battlefield. Not a coherent one – more a conglomeration of memories and fears, unstructured. He shot me out within seconds.'

Eames whistled under his breath. 'Bit like Limbo, then? With a dash of paranoia?'

'That's the way it seems, yes. He  _is_  fighting his own mind, after all. I imagine on some level he must know he's trapped – his mind is sublimating his fight against his body into a physical warzone.' Sherlock gives a snort of frustration. 'Medical research on this subject is profoundly inadequate.'

Eames stuffs his hands into the front pockets of his hoodie, tipping the chair back.

'Extracting from a coma patient. Haven't heard it being done before. Successfully, anyway. You're assuming his psyche hasn't deteriorated to the extent that whatever you're trying to extract has already evaporated.'

'A necessary risk. He's the only one alive who would have access to the information. The only one we know of, at least. The only - ' Sherlock draws the word out, 'survivor.'

'Bugger.'

Sherlock leaps to his feet; begins to pace. 'Of course, when I went into his mind, I had limited knowledge of what to expect. He shot me out before I had time to adapt to the dream. If we could go in,  _incognito_  –'

'Hey, hey – hang on a second.  _We?_ '

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'You're in, aren't you? We'll be attempting to extract from a comatose mark. It's legal, or at least not flagrantly  _illegal_ , not with Mycroft's fingers all over this pie. Ground-breaking work, minimal risk of fleeing the country if it all goes bollocks-up – what more could you ask for?'

Eames gazes at him with flat amusement. 'My three holiday homes in the Caribbean aren't exactly paying for themselves, you know.'

Sherlock pauses mid-step, turns towards him. 

'Caribbean? Not likely. You don't have the tan lines to show for it. This time of the year, record UV emissions over Central America, any tan would take at least two months to fade entirely. You've obviously just come from a job – bags under your eyes, fresh needle marks, skin giving off the faint scent of cherries. Cherries? You've been using one of Yusuf's formulas – the chemicals he uses are unique and give off a scent reminiscent of cherries when a sufficient volume has entered the bloodstream.'

'Sherlock –'

'The job obviously went well – you've come back to London, your home ground. You wouldn't have done that if you had anyone on your tail. You're feeling flush; your right hand twitches when you're relaxed, an aborted movement like dealing a pack of cards. You're thinking of hitting the casinos. Add that to the fact I've known you since we were  _seventeen_ , and you can't abide Caribbean cuisine. Too much sweet potato. No, you're in comfortable financial straits and you've spent your ill-gotten wealth on outrageously gaudy mansions in Northern Italy and,' Sherlock wrinkles his nose, 'Bangkok.'

Eames breathes out; a long, whistling sigh.

'Christ, Sherlock. And you wonder why no one in dreamshare wants to work with you.'

Sherlock scoffs, not bothering to reply.

Eames' lips twitch in unwilling amusement. 'Rumour has it, Leila's team actually used your name as the kick on that Zurich job. Couldn't think of a more painful way to die than death-by-deduction.'

'I can't help it if most dreamers are imbeciles.'

Eames folds his arms across his chest, leaning back comfortably. 'So what you're saying is, not only should I help you for little or no financial remuneration, I'll have to deal with your sparkling personality to boot. Don't I at least get danger money?'

Sherlock flops back into his armchair, skinny legs all akimbo. 'Your greed will be the end of you, Victor.'

'It's either that, or my overactive imagination.' Eames flips him the bird. 'At least, that's what my mum used to say. Bet she wouldn't have been surprised at how the chips fell – look at me now. Day-dreaming used to be my hobby, now it's my career.'

'Our career.' Sherlock turns his face towards him. The morning light hits his cheekbones at a slant, sharpening them into stark relief. 'So, will you do it?'

Eames laughs; a long, rumbling sound.

'For Queen and country, eh.' His grin widens, and he feels the addictive hum of adrenaline begin to build beneath his skin. 'Why the hell not. I guess we all need to do something once in a while just for shits and giggles.'

::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author note: This is my first Sherlock fic - in fact, my first attempt at a long-ish fic of any kind! I don't have a beta - if anyone fancies offering their beta services, do drop me note =)
> 
> Comments and feedback would be very, very much appreciated!


	3. Give me love over this

Peas. He misses the taste of peas.

Mushy peas, with steam wafting off them, squished against chunks of haddock deep-fried in batter, with a side of lovely, greasy chips. Christ. What he wouldn't give for mushy peas.

John's stomach growls in commiseration. It's a nice distraction from the growing numbness of his shoulder. His uniform is starting to stick to him unpleasantly – sweat and blood and god knows what else. He must look a right sight.

Tea.

Hot, piping tea just like his mum used to make it. None of that fancy Lapsang Souchong stuff. Just good old builder's tea with a generous dash of milk. He remembers coming home from school, mud-splattered from rugby, warming his hands with a mug of tea, listening to the sounds of his mum slapping up a quick supper in the kitchen. That first jolt of smoky sweetness hitting his tongue, thawing the cold from his bones - heavenly.

What else would he miss?

John doesn't consider himself sentimental by any means, but he can admit that he would miss sunsets. Or even looking at the sky, in general. The colour blue. Small things that he takes for granted, pottering about his daily life. He always thought he'd have more time to just - sit on a patch of grass and look up at the sky, if he wanted to. Maybe spend an aimless afternoon imagining that the shapes of clouds could have some kind of ineffable meaning. It would've been nice - cloud-watching with someone who wouldn't think he was daft, or who  _would_  think he was daft but who would've gone with it anyway, and perhaps even held his hand. He thinks he saw a dragon once – a long, spindly cloud undulating across the sky, backlit with rays of light. It'd been - pretty goddamn beautiful.

He'd miss crowds. The bustle of people, of life, all around him. Nothing naff about the glorious tapestry of humanity or anything like that. He's never been particularly idealistic, and anyway being a doctor would have been a rude awakening if he  _had_  been. Crowds, though. Rush hour on the Tube, with people who can't care less who you are or where you're going, and most of the time it's ruddy unpleasant when you're in the middle of it, but even so. He has a soft spot for the Tube - the bad-temperedness of people who ride it every day, the blithely ignored  _Mind the Gaps_ , the studious way everyone pretends they're the only ones on the train, even if they're literally shoulder to armpit. He'd miss people; for all that they're often awful, selfish, finicky, downright unkind. He's always felt  _alive_  in the middle of a crowd, struck with the sense that anything could happen, that the next person his eyes caught on could become – someone he liked, someone he didn't like. A friend. Girlfriend; boyfriend. People always surprise you. That's what he'd miss.

It's getting cold. John's a good enough doctor to know that's a bad sign. He can no longer feel his fingers, or the dampness of his uniform.

He wonders how Harry would take the news. They hadn't parted on good terms – as they grow older, it seems like everything he does rubs her the wrong way, and vice versa. Still, he remembers the feeling of looking up to his older sister, literally looking up as she helps him tie the laces on his shoes, that cocky, patronising, fond tone of her voice in his ear –  _oh, John, when are you going to learn to pick up after yourself._ Running after her as they raced across the fields back to their house, her braids bouncing off her backpack, muddy trainers kicking up behind her. Sharing her first cigarette, that gorgeous burn of nicotine down his throat, her hoarse laugh as they both coughed their lungs out and shushed each other before mum could hear. The sound of her sobs in the bathroom after her first breakup with whats-her-face. He'd sat by the door all night, and she hadn't come out. He wonders, guiltily, whether she would cry over him now.

He closes his eyes. Frankly, there's not much to see now that the wall's collapsed in.

He thinks he hears sounds of movement, but after a moment, he dismisses it as wishful thinking. It's been – hours, after all. Hours after the explosion, and the systematic  _rat-tat-tat_  of machine guns. Deep within him, John feels a tide of rage swell, a dark wave of  _they didn't even give us a chance_ and  _Christ, not even a whisper of warning_. A waste – a sad, fucking waste. He thinks about the friends he's made on the base. Then carefully packs the thoughts away.

He's drifting – thinking, of all things, of a good English fry-up – when the darkness above him shifts. The sounds are closer now; he can make out words. It sounds like someone berating someone else to shut up. John wonders if he's dreaming.

There's a heavy thud, followed by a shower of rubble. John winces, his arm automatically lifting to shield his face, before his shoulder erupts in a blaze of agony. He can't quite stifle a reflexive cry of pain, though it comes out sounding more like a hoarse whimper. There's a beat of silence, and then there's light –

He's looking into the London sky. Blue-grey, mercurial. Eighty percent cloud and twenty percent sky on any given day. He'd always loved that colour.

The sky blinks, then withdraws, and John realises he's looking into the eyes of a man peering down at his face.

'Christ, I'm delusional.'

The corner of the man's lips curls up, an involuntary movement that's there and gone in a second.

'Afghanistan.'

'Sor – sorry, what?'

'Afghanistan,' the man withdraws further, and John thinks wonderingly,  _Jesus, cheekbones._  'How predictable.'

'Of course we're in Afghanistan – what on earth –'

'Sherlock!'

The man's head whips around, and John feels the bottom fall out of his stomach. That insignia – the one on his uniform.  _No. Not like this._

With his last reserves of strength, John tightens his fingers on his gun. Between one moment and the next, from his prone position on the ground, he cocks his pistol and shoots both Sherlock and the man running up towards him through the temple.

::

 

'Persistent little bugger, isn't he.'

Sherlock hums in acknowledgement. Both Victor – or  _Eames_ , Sherlock refrains from rolling his eyes – and himself are back at Sherlock's MI6 laboratory after their failed extraction attempt.

Eames rubs his fingers against his lips. 'Well, that went swimmingly. An hour of dreamtime, forty-five minutes spent combing the bloody desert looking for the mark, then we finally find him – lucid, no less - and somehow, after ten seconds of talking to you, he shoots both of us out of the dream. What the  _bloody_  hell, Sherlock.'

Sherlock waves in Eames' direction, a vague  _shooing_ motion. 'Obviously he has trust issues.'

Eames snorts. 'And what did you say to him, exactly?'

'Afghanistan.' Sherlock closes his eyes. 'I said, "Afghanistan, how predictable."'

Eames runs a frustrated hand across his face.

'Right. And he shot you.'

Sherlock rolls over onto his side, facing the back of the chaise longue. 'Your hoodie is an atrocious shade of Tango orange. Juicy Couture, I take it?'

Sherlock hears the intake of breath that usually precedes one of Eames' longer rants, and has already started to formulate his retort, when a dainty _tap_ interrupts them. It sounds exactly like the wooden tip of an umbrella on fortified concrete.

'Victor,' Mycroft's voice is a mellifluous blend of ice and honey; he rolls the 'r' with the delicacy of cut glass. 'How lovely to see you.'

Sherlock swings his head around just for the vindictive pleasure of seeing Eames' face smooth from its usual affability into a blank mask. Ten years ago, Eames would have flushed red as a tomato – how nice to witness proof that some people do grow up.

'Hello, Mycroft.' Eames drifts from a soft, unplaceable Southern-ish accent to the crisper consonants of his public school youth – so he does have some sort of tell, after all. 'You look well.'

'Mycroft has been  _dieting_.' Sherlock can't resist. 'It's making him even more unbearable than usual.'

Mycroft pauses from shaking Eames' hand – Sherlock despairs of the both of them - to cast Sherlock a flat glare.

'Please, Sherlock, not in front of company.'

'So it's perfectly fine for you to  _sleep with my classmate_  but heaven forbid I make a single reference to your weight–'

'Sherlock!' His name rings out like a shot.

Sherlock eyes the faint tinge across Eames' cheeks with satisfaction. Mycroft, naturally, looks no more discomfited than if he had found his tea two degrees cooler than expected. Both have dropped their hands, Sherlock is pleased to observe.

'Now, if we've dispensed with the pleasantries,' Mycroft smiles, a consummately bureaucratic baring of teeth, 'let's get back to the matter at hand, shall we? Sherlock, I need a report.'

Sherlock snarls. He hates it when Mycroft pulls rank, and Mycroft knows it. Every day, Sherlock bemoans the fact that for all his natural intelligence, he still can't find a way to dabble in dreamshare and  _not_ end up reporting to his brother in some capacity. Well, a way that wouldn't involve actually joining the criminal ranks.

'Subject's dream state was similar to the first extraction attempt. A desert-like battlefield, but without sufficient detail for a true memory. The majority of our time under was spent trying to locate the subject in the midst of all that infernal sand; I found him trapped underneath a collapsed wall.' Sherlock turns his head away, towards the chaise longue.

'He was in pain, disoriented. Eyes dilated. Injuries corroborate with his real-life condition – gunshot wound to the shoulder, broken ribs. We exchanged a few words, then I turned away and he shot me.' Sherlock adds, as an afterthought, 'He shot Victor as well. Both were clean shots through the temple. The entire exchange took less than twenty seconds.'

Mycroft tips his chin downwards, towards the floor. 'And did you manage to observe anything in that time?'

'Nothing of true significance that could lead us to the identity of the bombers.' Sherlock waves a hand. 'Oh, it's obvious that Watson thrives on adrenaline, that he has nerves of steel, that his coma has made him borderline paranoid in the dreamscape and that he can overcome debilitating injury to pull off two nearly impossible shots – but really, nothing of any significance.'

'With his background, even without any knowledge of dreamshare, he's effectively militarized.' Eames' tone is thoughtful; he strokes his stubbled chin absently. 'No projections, though. He's his own army.'

'Minimal projections. A typical feature of Limbo, one of the many ways it's distinguished from normal or lucid dreaming.' Sherlock stretches his legs so that his feet dangle half-off the chair.

'It's unlikely that Watson even knows he's dreaming. Obviously, his mind thinks he's still on the battlefield. He's on high alert; apprehensive, jumpy. Any movement or introduction of a new element into the dream has him reaching for his gun,' Sherlock frowns, 'and he shoots to kill.'

Mycroft's face tightens. His umbrella resumes a gentle  _tap, tap_  rhythm on the floor. Wagner-ish, possible  _Parsifal_. Not good.

'Gentlemen, I needn't remind you that time, in this instance, is a luxury we can ill afford. Putting aside the baying of the press, Captain Watson's medical condition is by no means stable. The coma is an unknown variable, and the longer he remains comatose, the less optimistic the prognosis.' Mycroft crosses his feet, one Italian leather sole brushing the other. 'And the less likely he'll still retain memories that may be of some use to us.'

'We need to switch our tactics, obviously.' Sherlock sits up, mind whirring. 'We need to jolt him out of Limbo, somehow. Build another dream for him, make him let down his guard a little, let us into his memories.'

'Putting a coma patient into a lucid dream?' Eames lifts his eyebrows. 'The shock of it may finish him off. We're playing with a damaged psyche here; remember. His neurological system could simply overload.'

'We'd have to risk it.' Sherlock permits himself a small smile. 'Could be dangerous.'

Mycroft hasn't said a word. He's scrutinising the body of his umbrella, the ribbing of its spokes tapering to the neat curve of its crook handle. Sherlock is just about to open his mouth when Mycroft's gaze cuts to him.

'You have twenty-four hours before I pull the plug on this operation.'

Sherlock is speechless.

'In that time, assuming there is no change to his condition, Captain Watson would have been comatose for sixty-eight hours. After the third day, neurologic deficit typically accelerates, and the activity in the cerebral cortex lessens considerably.'

'Mycroft – '

'No.' Mycroft's voice is bland. He sounds like he's commenting on the weather. 'I will not risk you, Sherlock.'

Eames clears his throat. Mycroft tips his head in an almost courtly gesture. 'Or your ex-classmate.'

'Twenty-four hours!' Sherlock throws up his hands. 'We'd have to assemble a team, design and build the dream – at  _least_  two levels, to cultivate that amount of trust. I'd need to tweak the amount of sedative for great depth – it needs to be stable enough to bear under whatever madness Watson's comatose mind throws at us–'

'The timeline is non-negotiable.'

'It's  _impossible_.'

'Impossible?' Mycroft arches an eyebrow. 'Surely not. Difficult, yes. However, you've already done your research – you know exactly the man John Watson is.'

Eames rounds his shoulders, sticking his hands into the front pockets of his hoodie. 'Right. And if you could kindly enlighten us - who is he, by your reckoning?'

Mycroft bequeaths Eames with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

'When John Watson closes his eyes, he sees the battlefield. He's near death, under constant stress. Yet in the dream, his hand is perfectly steady.'

Sherlock stares at the ceiling, remembering desert camouflage speckled by blood. Dark blue eyes, crinkled at the sides and  _Christ, I'm delusional._

Mycroft continues, 'His mind could have formulated any scenario for Limbo, yet subconsciously, he clings to the last vestiges of reality. He's not haunted by the war, he misses it. It's where he feels the most alive.'

Sherlock closes his eyes.

'We'll do it.'

Eames sputters.

'The hell, Sherlock?'

'We can do it.' Sherlock turns his head towards Eames. 'There's a man you know. You haven't brought up his name. Maybe you think he won't help you. Maybe you think he's not right for this particular job. But the fact that you thought of him first is revealing. You're not a detective – you're a conman. You don't bother to think things through logically, you rely on your instincts. And your instincts led to his name.'

Eames stares at him, his mouth flattening.

'An architect, obviously. I'm the extractor and the chemist, you're the forger; we only need an architect to round off a skeleton team.'

Mycroft glances at his phone. 'Trained as an architect, but I believe these days he's usually on point, Sherlock.'

Sherlock briefly looks Eames up and down. 'Point man? Oh yes, of course. He'd double up. Clever. Especially considering Watson's trigger-happiness.'

Eames buries his face in his hands. 'I'll just give him a ring, shall I?'

Mycroft pockets his phone. He swings his umbrella; its tip points towards the door. 'Please don't trouble yourself, Victor. You'll find that Arthur will be along shortly. Fortunate, really, that he's currently in London. Positively serendipitous that he's currently residing in your flat.'

Mycroft makes his way towards the glass doors. 'I'll be along momentarily for a sitrep. Do behave, Sherlock.'

Sherlock scowls at his departing back. Eames rubs two fingers against his temple. The sound of Mycroft's fading footsteps echo against the steel and white asphalt tiles of the basement laboratory.

Sherlock arches an eyebrow in Eames' direction.

'Oh, just shut your bloody gob, Holmes.'

:: 


	4. Three continents

The mad tosser is in his element.

His face is blank – an amalgamation of shadows and angles, as inscrutable as the daubs of colour in a Cubist painting – but his eyes gleam with rapt fascination as he twirls a stirring rod through amber liquid. The goggles on Sherlock's face reflect the electric glare of laboratory lighting. A forest of test tubes bubble and hiss around him, their sounds echoing off rusting Victorian steel arches.

 _Portrait of a devotee at the altar of Science,_ Eames muses, _circa 2013._ He'd need his palette knife to carve the sharpness of Sherlock's eyes, the planes of his face. No soft brushwork here.

To his left, Arthur leans over the table, his fingers tapping away with smooth efficiency. The familiar sound of Arthur's typing triggers a Pavlovian reaction in Eames; an imperceptible gear shift as the world retreats a half-inch, as the multitude of forms and gestures and tells – of _people –_ he carries in his head fold away, suddenly quiescent. Eames wonders when a dour stick-in-the-mud had become his comfort blanket.

When Arthur had arrived at Sherlock's lab, Sherlock had taken one look at him – perfectly pressed in exquisite Dior, pinstripe shirt under a grey sweater vest, every single line from the curve of his wrist to the Windsor knot at his throat honed for beauty and utility, like the world's most finely crafted weapon – and turned sharp eyes towards Eames. All he'd said was, 'It seems you have a type', lifting an eyebrow a bare half-inch.

Eames still can't decide whether he's more grateful or mortified.

'Holmes.' Arthur's American accent sounds oddly out-of-place in the bowels of MI6. 'I think we have a hit.'

Sherlock doesn't look up. His hands continue their precise movements – three rounds clockwise, three rounds anti-clockwise; the solution swirls from amber to greenish bronze. 'Tell me.'

Eames moves towards Arthur's desk, the better to look over his shoulder at the screen. He can feel the faint heat of Arthur's back against his front.

'Mike Stamford. Watson's friend from university. They exchanged emails up until Watson's last tour of duty.' Arthur shifts on his seat and types a string of commands, bringing up a webpage from St. Bart's Hospital. 'He's a Senior Lecturer in Anatomical Studies at Barts' medical college.'

Eames hums contemplatively, eyes roving across the screen.

'Old uni mate, similar medical background.' Stamford looks uncomfortable in his staff photo. His shirt is tight around his throat, his tie is askew, but his smile is frank and wide, stretching across his round face. 'Looks harmless enough. Lads, this could work.'

Sherlock gazes at a far wall, silent. Eames catches the look in Arthur's eyes – that resigned _what batshit crazy mess did you drag me into, asshole –_ and takes the opportunity to step closer, practically draping himself over the fine wool of Arthur's suit jacket. He feels a frisson deep in his belly when Arthur doesn't move away.

Eames continues, 'It's probably less risky than going with the estranged sister for the first level. Watson's subconscious is already going to be a miasma of fraught emotions; no need to go out of our way to rile him up. We need to keep him as placid as we can. What better way than grabbing a pint with an old mate?'

The harsh electric lighting should have washed Sherlock out. Instead, with his wild curls, the git looks as flawless as a Bernini statue, and as obdurate. Arthur casts an exasperated look at Eames, before turning towards their extractor.

'Look, Holmes–'

'Married?'

Arthur's brows furrow. 'Excuse me?'

'Is he married? Does he have a wife? Husband? Progeny?' Sherlock finally stills his hands, giving Arthur the benefit of his full attention. 'Surely that's not too difficult to find out.'

The lines of Arthur's face deepen in a scowl. 'He's been married seven years. Two daughters. His wife is a pharmacist.'

'Seven years. They would have met when Stamford was still in medical school. Watson probably would have known them both,' Sherlock murmurs to himself, his eyes distant. 'Does Watson have other friends from the same period who are still in London?'

Arthur turns back to his laptop; his fingers clatter over the keyboard.

'His email records show he keeps in touch with a wide circle, but most of his coursemates have married and moved into private practices outside of London. Watson hasn't been online much since he left on his current tour. His email history is sporadic, to say the least. The last time he was back in England was nine months ago.' Arthur frowns. 'None of his acquaintances contact him regularly, apart from a mailing list who meet up every month to play rugby.'

Eames straightens up, his arm lingering on Arthur's shoulder. 'Right, then. Seems like Stamford's our best bet. It's not like we have all the time in the world, in any case,' he flicks a glance at the heavy gold watch on his wrist, 'it's nearly sunset.'

Sherlock nods. The beaker in front of him emits a thin plume of egg yolk-coloured smoke.

'Fine. Bring him in.' Eames has half-composed a text to Mycroft when Sherlock's next words stop him. 'Victor, do restrain yourself from canoodling with our point man in my laboratory. It's turning my stomach.'

Arthur turns to look at Eames. His face is a picture as he mouths, _Victor?_

Bloody hell.

::

 

Dr Mike Stamford sweats when he's nervous.

_Grammar school. One - no, two longhaired cats. Fell asleep marking papers last night. Late riser. Left side of the bed. Happy marriage. Tea drinker. Prefers PG Tips. Pink glitter under his fingernails._

Sherlock smiles.

'How was your daughter's birthday party?'

Mike sputters. 'Sorry, how – how did you know –'

Eames casts a warning glare at Sherlock. His lips curve, sweetly disarming, as he shakes Stamford's hand. 'Never mind him, doctor. We're just here to ask you a few questions, all right? We'll have you back home for dinner with the missus. Come, come – have a seat.'

Mike takes the indicated chair in a fog of incomprehension. 'Sorry – I – _where_ am I? Who are you, again?' He stares at all three of them, his gaze lingering on Arthur, who's doing a fair impression of a well-dressed thundercloud, scribbling furiously in his Moleskine. 'You don't _look_ like the tax authority. I always thought HMRC was on the Strand.'

'Is that what Mycroft's people said? Typical.' Sherlock sits down on the chair facing Stamford, his eyes roving over the minutiae of Stamford's face. _Non-smoker. Enjoys the occasional late night out. Needs to update his optical prescription._ 'No, we're here to interrogate you about your personal life.'

'What?'

Arthur clears his throat. 'What my colleague is trying to say–'

'John Watson.' Sherlock's eyes narrow when Stamford gives a little start, then – _interesting_ – his shoulders loosen. 'Tell us everything you know about John Watson.'

Mike chuckles. 'I should have known John had put you up to this. What's the mad bugger done now, eh?' He folds his arms across his stomach; Sherlock watches as Eames leans back in his chair, his eyes cataloguing each shift in Stamford's body language.

'Captain Watson – and, by extension, yourself – are in a unique position. You have become vital to the safeguarding of our nation's interests.' Sherlock catches Stamford's gaze, holds it. 'Watson is in possession of certain information that we require, but he is inaccessible at this point in time.'

Mike's brow furrows. 'Wait – is John in some kind of trouble?'

'No, no. The exact opposite; we intend to keep Captain Watson hale and hearty, if we can. To do that, we need you to tell us about him.'

Eames chimes in, 'We're really trying to help your friend, Dr Stamford. He's found himself in a bit of a tight spot, and we need your help to get him out of it.'

Mike still looks unconvinced, but he mumbles gamely, 'All right. Anything to help John. Capital bloke. Not sure how I can be useful, though. I haven't caught up with him for ages.'

Sherlock leans forward. 'When you do "catch up", where do you usually meet?'

Mike chuckles. 'Well, it'd have to be the Criterion, won't it. Been going there with John for ages. Nice little pub, just off Piccadilly Circus. They do a mean fish and chips. Either that, or we'd just grab lunch or a coffee near Barts, if we're both pressed for time.'

'And what do you drink, when you're there? What's your regular?'

'I always get Foster's. John's a London Pride man, when he can get it. What–' Mike's face is a picture of perplexity. 'No, _how_ will this help John, again?'

'Don't trouble your tiny mind about the particulars.' Sherlock quirks his lips, resting his elbows on his thighs. 'Tell us about John. You've known him – eleven years now. What's he like as a friend?'

Mike raises a hand to adjust his glasses. 'Well, you couldn't ask for a better mate than John. We don't speak that often nowadays, more's the pity. The kids and the missus, you know. And him off in Afghanistan, getting shot at.' Sherlock exchanges a glance with Eames. 'But we used to be close, back at uni. He used to be my flatmate.' Mike huffs – it sounds like a chortle. 'I was the only one who'd have him.'

'Why's that?'

'Well, don't get me wrong. John's a decent bloke – probably the most decent person I've met in my life. He'd come through for you, every time. But he has a bit of a – well, things keep _happening_ to him, you know? He's like a bloody magnet.'

Eames asks, 'A magnet? A magnet for what?'

'Well – anything that you can think of, really. You wouldn't guess it, to look at him, but god, if I had half his luck with women.' Mike grins to himself. 'Girls used to love him. A couple of boys, too – wait, this isn't going on any official record, is it?'

Sherlock waves a hand.

'Right.' Mike coughs. 'As I was saying – John just has this way about him. None of us could ever figure it out. We used to call him Three Continents Watson, you know. But it isn't just people who're attracted to him – trouble follows him everywhere. Not saying he's a troublemaker, by any means, but god, life around him can get a tad chaotic.'

Sherlock presses his fingertips against his lips. 'Explain.'

'It's hard to put into words. He isn't the loudest bloke you'll ever meet, but no party back then was complete without him. When you're with John Watson, it's as if – anything could happen. This!' Mike gesticulates at the three of them, 'This would've been right up his alley.'

Mike beams. 'I should've known it had something to do with John when a mysterious car pulls up and forces me to get in. Not your typical evening commute, is it? Wait till Sharon hears about this. By the way,' he sobers, 'you _are_ from the government, aren't you? John hasn't gotten mixed up in some criminal – gang, ring, whatchamacallit, has he?'

'If he did, we'd hardly tell you.' Sherlock smiles. Arthur glares at him. 'But no, Dr Stamford. Rest assured you're in the safe hands of Her Majesty's government. Well,' he passes a quick glance over Eames and Arthur, 'I say government, but lord knows they let anyone in the doors these days.'

Mike looks uncertain.

'Right, back on topic.' A grin; exude charm. 'Dr Stamford, how would you describe a typical night out with John? Every detail you can give us would be appreciated.'

::

 

It's almost four in the morning when Sherlock drops off. One moment he's poring over Arthur's layout, the next he's face down on the chaise longue, like a puppet with its strings cut.

Eames is familiar with his habits, of old. This is probably the first time Sherlock's slept since his brother brought the case up. _Silly bugger._ Not like he can say anything – dreamshare isn't exactly a nine-to-five gig. Eames draws a woollen blanket over Sherlock's still form, taking care not to jostle his feet.

Arthur's back at the flat, catching twenty winks before they meet up at daybreak. Plenty of time for final tweaks before the job at 1400 hours. Christ, has it been less than a day since he received Sherlock's first text? _Bloody Holmeses – what a whirlwind._

There's a change in the air – a tell-tale, nostalgic waft of vetiver and warm leather, and Eames turns his head to see Mycroft Holmes gazing down at his sleeping brother with a peculiar expression. Mycroft looks impeccable; his only concession to the late hour is a hint of cigarette smoke and a slightly off-centre pocket square.

'So, how's he been, then?' Eames murmurs, _sotto voce_. When he finally succumbs, Sherlock sleeps like the dead, but he wouldn't put anything past this pair of brothers.

Mycroft hums, non-committal. His thin lips quirk in a wry grimace.

'That good, eh?' Eames can't help but tease. 'Next thing you know, he'll actually get together with someone, settle down in that disgusting flat of his, and you wouldn't know what to do with yourself.'

Mycroft folds his arms, leaning on his umbrella. His eyes, when they meet Eames', are warm.

'Sex continues to alarm my brother, I'm afraid.'

Eames laughs. 'Unlike you, he's always lacked a certain kind of imagination.' He looks down – Sherlock's hair is an ungodly mess of tangles and curls. There may even be a paperclip in there somewhere. 'He seems – all right, though. More content.'

'Sherlock has found an occupation that indulges most, if not all, of his interests. He is engaged in solving a great puzzle – the mystery of the human mind.' Mycroft's tone is dispassionate, but Eames knows what he sounds like when he's feeling fond. 'It fascinates him.'

'You've kept him busy, then.'

'Constantly.'

Mycroft slides a glance at Eames. 'Of late, the global economic crisis has created a new boom in criminal activity. It's been very accommodating.'

Eames clears his throat, cursing his face's inability to quell a blush around Mycroft. 'Right, wouldn't know anything about that.' He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. 'I'd better be off, myself. Busy day tomorrow.'

'Indeed.'

'I'm sure Sherlock will brief you about the plan in the morning. We've pretty much nailed it, anyhow. Two levels; keeps it simple, minimises the risk.'

Mycroft cocks his head. 'I look forward to it. I'm sure between the two of you – and that young man of yours – Captain Watson is in as safe a pair of hands as I could hope for.'

Eames gathers his phone, his keys. 'Well, I'll just be off then. It's been –' he pauses, catches Mycroft's eye, 'it's nice to be back in London, after a spell.'

Mycroft smiles. He steps forward, briefly places a cool hand on Eames' upper arm. 'You look well, Victor. Your life must be agreeing with you. We must have tea, sometime.' His eyes narrow with something like amusement. 'Do bring Arthur with you. I'm sure the both of you have some intriguing stories to tell. Inception, wasn't it?'

Eames lets out a squeak before he can help it.

'But, where are my manners. I shan't keep you any longer.' Mycroft steps back, lightly swinging his umbrella. 'We'll speak more once this is over.'

Eames casts a last glance behind him as he leaves the laboratory. Mycroft has dimmed the overhead lights; Sherlock's beakers cast a honey-warm glow around his silhouette. In the darkness, Mycroft looks just like any other man, smoothing a fold in the blanket over his sleeping brother's shoulder.

Eames shakes his head. When he steps outdoors, it's to the steady patter of London rain.

::

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick authorial note on ages: 
> 
> Everyone's a little younger than they appear in Sherlock and Inception canon. John is 30, Sherlock and Eames are the same age at 27, and Arthur is the youngest of the lot, at something like 25-26. This is just in case someone tries to add up all the years I've mentioned in the fic - I didn't want to confuse anyone =)


End file.
